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Updated: July 2, 2025
"Sir," answered Peterby, shaking his head, "it is a life study, and, so far as I know, there are only two people in the world who understand it aright; Beau Brummell was one, and, because he was the Beau, had London and the World of Fashion at his feet." "And who was the other?"
He is also as great a Buck as George Hanger, as Jehu, or Jockey of Norfolk, and as famous, almost, as the late Sir Maurice Vibart." "Ah!" said Barnabas. "And since the retirement of Mr. Brummell, he and the Marquis of Jerningham have to some extent taken his place and become the Arbiters of Fashion." "Oh!" said Barnabas.
"There's your grandfather now," said Lucy. "Isn't it?" George's frown was not relaxed. "Yes, it is; and he ought to give that rat-trap away and sell those old horses. They're a disgrace, all shaggy not even clipped. I suppose he doesn't notice it people get awful funny when they get old; they seem to lose their self-respect, sort of." "He seemed a real Brummell to me," she said.
Brummell, so quiet, so reasonable, and, I say emphatically, so beautiful; free from folly or affectation, yet susceptible to exquisite ordering; plastic, austere, economical, may not be ignored. I spoke of the doom of swift rebellions, but I doubt even if any soever gradual evolution will lead us astray from the general precepts of Mr. Brummell's code.
The proper associates of an artist are they who practise his own art rather than they who however honourably do but cater for its practice. For the rest, I am sure that Mr. Brummell was no lackey, as they have suggested. He wished merely to be seen by those who were best qualified to appreciate the splendour of his achievements.
Intricate folds of muslin, arranged in prodigious bows and ends, formed the cravat, which Brummell had not yet arisen to reform; his hat, of a very peculiar shape, low at the crown and broad at the brim, was worn with an air of devil-me-care defiance; his watch-chain, garnished with a profusion of rings and seals, hung low from his white waistcoat; and the adaptation of his nankeen inexpressibles to his well-shaped limbs was a masterpiece of art.
"My DEAR BRUMMELL, All my money is locked up in the funds. This was just before Brummell's escape to the Continent. I have frequently asked Scrope Davis his private opinion of Lord Byron, and invariably received the same answer that he considered Lord Byron very agreeable and clever, but vain, overbearing, conceited, suspicious, and jealous.
You both fire and miss, and then the seconds interfere, and then you shake hands: everything being arranged in the most honourable manner and to the mutual satisfaction of both parties. The next day you are seen pacing Bond Street with an erect front and a flashing eye, with an air at once dandyish and heroical, a mixture at the same time of Brummell and the Duke of Wellington.
Small conceits are intolerable, but when they are pushed to the uttermost they become respectable. How do, George?" "Have you heard about Vereker Merton?" asked Brummell, strolling up with one or two other exquisites at his heels. "He has run away with his father's woman-cook, and actually married her." "What did Lord Merton do?"
Moreover, the theory was not easy to verify. I knew that, except in some great emotional crisis, the costume could not palpably change its aspect. Here was an impasse; for the perfect dandy the Brummell, the Mr. Le V. cannot afford to indulge in any great emotion outside his art; like Balzac, he has not time. The gods were good to me, however.
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